


The Origins of Hate

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-21
Updated: 2008-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 01:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1624169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the origins of the conflict.  What  could have possibly happened to make Captain Hammer and Dr Horrible hate each other?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Origins of Hate

**Author's Note:**

> After reading the Origin of Moist, I came to the conclusion that in the Horrible-verse, powers can both be earned and inherent. Also, Dr Horrible likes remotes.   
>  I couldn't get origin stories and hate-sex in the same mouthful, but I think I've well left that possibility open.
> 
> Written for attentat

 

 

"I didn't know him then. I didn't meet him until I began henching. I only really got to know him when I moved in with him."

The Guild's historian raised an eyebrow, wrinkling his silvered forehead. He didn't say much these days - especially not since the incident with the American Idolator's machine - but he could get answers.

"Like a gay thing? No. At least," Moist stopped and trailed off a little. "Neither of us is... _was_...particularly successful with the ladies. That's not what this is about." He wrung his hands on the washcloth he carried in lieu of a handkerchief. Wetness-management suggestion from the Pisces Twins. "Of course, it's better now..."

The spaceman gestured for him to continue. 

"They've known each other for a long time. High school. He told me that Captain Hammer never finished, but I don't know. I never bothered to check." He squeezed the cloth out and water spilled across the floor.

* * *

Billy heard Coach Glickman shouting something from near his feet. Sounds warped as they reached him through and beneath the machine. He grabbed the metal framework and pushed himself out. 

"Yes, sir?" He consciously lowered the wrench in his right hand. Sure, there was nothing he'd like better than to brain Coach Whitmore, but now was obviously not the time. There were others in the workshop. Some of them even liked the man. Some of them were... _athletes_. 

The coach let out a low whistle. He walked past Billy, failing to resolve him, and placed a hand on the glittering metal scales of the dragon. "Now that's somethin'." He turned and looked at Billy, frowning. "You got any of that plastic flower shit they put on floats?"

"Uh, no sir. It's, uh, mostly scrap metal. Some wood. Some rubber," he added, as the surface of the float was prodded. 

"Where are people going to stand?" 

"Behind the dragon. That's, uh, pretty important."

Coach Glickman laughed. "What're you going to tell me? This thing doesn't blast fire or nothin'." He looked serious for a moment. "It don't, right?"

Billy screwed up the left side of his face. He considered telling Coach Whitmore what it really did, but he'd ignore it anyway. "It's not _real_ fire." He opened the control panel and let the coach look at the wiring for a moment. "When we're in the parade, it'll be remote operated."

"That way you're not sitting there tending to it." 

Billy sighed. "Right." 

He pushed the button to controlling the smoke. Puffs of grey mist breathed from the metallic monster's nostrils once per second. The next button pushed the dragon's neck back - he was particularly proud of how he'd covered the movement - and the final one opened the mouth and let loose a red-orange breath. He waved a hand through it. "See? Completely harmless." 

"Anything else?" Billy felt a small bit of success, as Coach looked impressed despite his not actually looking at him. 

"The, uh, castle wall," he said, pointing at the very back of the float, "shoots confetti." He shrugged. That was something from a design from a few years back - he'd found it and cleaned it up, but it wasn't any sort of challenge. This cold fire effect was much more impressive, as long as no one stuck their head into it. Challenging the effect killed it. 

"I can see you goin' far, Billy." 

"Thank you, sir." 

"You thought about being a mechanic? Good, honest work, that is. Make some nice money." 

He sucked his breath in as he forced himself not to slam the control panel closed. "Sure," he said.

"Buddy!" Coach Glickman shouted. A barrage of back-slapping and wordless hurrahs went up. Billy turned. 

It was _him_. Mr. All-American, football hero, Captain of the assholes. Suddenly getting his tools put away in Guinness-book time seemed like the way to achieve a stunning future in the field of anything but decaying in a six foot hole.

As Billy hunted around the back of the float for an errant socket, he realized they were looking at him. No, he thought, at the float. Maybe Captain Asshole wouldn't notice him, just like Coach hadn't. 

"Word has it you're Homecoming King," the older man said.

"They don't really have any other options," the newcomer interrupted. 

"'course not. Look at this. Real smoke. Real fire," he said, winking at Billy. "Goddamn beautiful device. Imagine you and, whatsherface, you know, standing down there. No one's gonna miss it."

"Do we really need it?"

"What, the float?"

"Sure. I mean, something glittery's nice for the ladies. But once I'm up there, what's the point in looking at anything else?"

"It's not just about you," Billy mumbled. 

The football player moved fast. "What was that?" he asked, pulling on Billy's collar. He lifted him nearly over the back of the dragon, the scales slicing neatly into his shirt. 

"Now, son," the coach protested. "No assaulting fellow students on school ground." 

Billy dropped to his feet, grateful for the metal construction between them. "You want to know what I said? I said it's not just about you. It's about the team. The whole school." 

"It's about the football game, not this little...science fair you've made. And as I am captain of the football team, that pretty much means it's about me." 

He searched for a distraction. "Oh, come on. At least...what about the Homecoming Queen? And the court?"

"She might need the help. All right." He grinned and thumped his hand on the back of the device. "Homecoming's a lucky night. Not that you'd know about that. But maybe this'll impress some other girls, too. Maybe even some from the other team." 

As the coach persuaded him out of the workshop, Billy felt the weight of the socket in his hand. He grimaced. He pulled his arm back. And he sighed, dropping it. Futile expense of energy. Not the way to use the tools of science, even if it was just mechanical engineering. And if he'd hit him? Even given the minute chances of that happening, he could say goodbye to oxygen and sunlight and intact bones. Billy put the socket away and checked the levels of chemicals in the dragon's body. 

* * *

They let him sit in the truck pulling the next float. It was the best way for him to get close enough to the device to activate it, move with it, and, the entire football team had been strongly suggesting, not be seen. As a concession, he'd put on a hooded sweatshirt and sunglasses and sweated in the cab. 

It was a beautiful fall day. Warm, here in California, and sunny. Sunlight glinted off the gold glittering scales of the San Dimas Dragons' float. With the windows down, he could hear the crowd, and he smiled to himself, deep in his sweatshirt, as they 'ooh'ed and 'ahh'ed at the device he had made. He did the best he could to focus on the smoke, on the fire, on the band up ahead, and to ignore the flashing lights from the fire truck behind them and, above all, to not look at, not at all, the Homecoming King and Queen. 

Billy stole a few glances at her cleavage when the Captain had turned. 

Riding directly behind the float also afforded a fantastic and life-changing view of the confetti cannon exploding. 

Everything stopped. Everyone looked. Then Jessie Portner, standing on the float in her Homecoming regalia, screamed. Everyone moved again, scrambling up to the couple and reaching, pulling them down. Jessie's clique surrounded her, one of the girls dabbing blood from her dress as the others tried to quiet her. 

"Everyone calm down!" 

Everyone did. His voice was as big as his shoulders. He put his fists on his hips and began addressing the crowd. 

"I don't know wha..."

It trailed off as he saw his knee. 

"Huh." He flexed it experimentally. Blood gushed out from around the piece of metal. Coach Glickman pushed his way through the crowd before he could get a grip on the scrap and pull it out. 

Billy saw everything. Deep in his disguise, he felt visible. He snuck out of the truck and tried to move backwards through the crowd. The crowd would have none of it. 

"Don't touch it!" Volunteer firemen leapt onto the platform and eased him onto a stretcher. 

"What? Aw, Coach, it feels fine." He sat up, moving his leg again and spattering the men. "Let them just slap a band-aid on it and let's get this thing going. Whoo! Go Dragons!"

Coach Glickman put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Son, you just took a piece of shrapnel to the knee, the likes of which I haven't seen since the war. Let's get you to the hospital." 

"Whaddya mean, Coach? Wait. Wait. I'm not gonna miss the game, right, Coach?"

"Son, I'm sorry to tell you this..."

He didn't have to. The yell rebounded against the assembled, echoing inside and around their heads. 

"Get him!" He pointed. His teammates started in whatever directions the crowd allowed. "Get that...that...horrible geek who built this death trap!" 

* * *

"And that's all he says he remembers. The rest of the team put him in the hospital. Or the stampeding crowd. He says it doesn't really matter. The rest of the year was pretty bad. He'll only talk about it when he's drunk. Doesn't like gyms or the YMCA or combination locks. Something about the locker room." This garnered another eyebrow-lift. 

Moist sat back, hands in his lap. "It's almost like they're even now, huh?" 

Dead Bowie twitched his head in a semblance of a nod or shrug. 

"I guess it is. I mean, that was the beginning. Then Doc went out east to college and grad school and couldn't stand the weather. That's how he ended up back here when he was done. He said the weather was too bad in Arkham. Snow made people crazy. He came back here and said Captain Hammer acted like eight whole years hadn't gone by."

The historian put his pen down. His voice was ruined from his last battle, soft and cracked and genderless. "That's it?" 

"That's all I know. I guess it doesn't take much to go evil."

He shook his head and closed the notebook. 

 


End file.
